


“Rise and shine!”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [17]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Drunkenness, Explicit Language, F/M, Non-Canon probably, They’re just friends and colleagues here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 20:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Warning for language, hence the M rating.Before I decided to do Fictober, I saw another list of prompts which I idly scanned, one of which was “Rise and fucking shine, motherfucker!” and this one-shot leaped, fully-formed, into my head. Do skip if that kind of language offends.Disclaimer: non-canon, I don’t think for a minute our Robin would say this. But the thought of it made me lol.





	“Rise and shine!”

“Rise and fucking shine, motherfucker!”

The drunken slur and following giggle was somewhat drowned out by the crash of his door against the wall. Even as it bounced back and almost hit Robin in the face, Strike was scrambling half out of bed, disorientated but remembering at the last moment not to try and stand up.

Robin was framed in the doorway, swaying. Her little leather jacket was half off one shoulder, mascara and copious eyeliner smudged down her cheek.

Strike peered at her, brain fogged by sleep. “Um, what? What did you just call me?” His voice croaked.

Robin giggled again and tottered towards him in stiletto ankle boots, vaguely pushing the offending door to behind her.

“‘S rock, innit? We were being rock chicks.”

Strike remembered Robin had been on a girls’ night out to a Summer of Rock festival in Hyde Park. But it was light now. He squinted at his bedside clock. It was 5am.

“Rock chicks?” He was still trying to catch up.

“Yeah,” she giggled. “Guy at the kebab place din’t like it, though.” She staggered sideways a little and grabbed at his mini dining table. She was closer now, and Strike was acutely conscious that he was without his prosthesis and only wearing a T-shirt and boxers, sat in the middle of his bed.

“You called the guy at the kebab place ‘motherfucker’? I’m not surprised he didn’t like it.”

Robin grinned lopsidedly. “We were bein’ ironic. Post-modern. Something. Made sense when Ilsa said it.”

Strike laughed. “I shall not believe Ilsa called anyone that unless you have video evidence. So, um— What are you doing here?”

“Breakfast!” Robin shouted triumphantly.

“Breakfast?”

“Yeah. I don’ wan’ a kebab, I want breakfast. Those lightweights—” she spun around and waved an arm at the door, almost falling over in the process “—bailed on me. An’ I thought, I thought...” She paused and hiccoughed, and then remembered where the sentence was going. “Who do I know who likes breakfast? Corm’r’n! Come eat bacon with me. Pleeeeeeeease.”

Strike regarded her, panda-eyed and swaying. “Really?”

“Yup. We’re gonna eat all the bacon in London. And not that vegetarian shite. Getupgetupgetup.”

Strike hesitated. Could he really take Robin to a cafe in this state? “How about a coffee first?” He looked around for his prosthesis.

“Mm, good plan. Coffeeeeeeee.” Her eyes wandered over him and slid to his pillows. “Your bed looks everso, everso comfy.”

His mouth twisted in amusement. “It’s good enough.”

“Might—” She wobbled towards him again. “Might jus’ have a teeny tiny nap. Before breakfas’.”

Strike just managed to scramble his legs out of the way as Robin face-planted diagonally across his bed, still in her jacket and boots with her bag strap across her body. Silence descended.

“Um, Robin?” He reached out a cautious hand and poked her shoulder. She snored.

Strike shook his head and chuckled fondly. “Oh, Robin. I suppose that solves the breakfast question.”

“Bac’n,” she mumbled. She shifted a little, and he could see that she was already drooling into his pillow.

Strike sighed. “Right.”

It took a considerable amount of manhandling a floppy, pliant Robin to get her bag off her and then her little leather jacket. Robin grumbled and batted at him in her sleep as he tried to gently ease straps and sleeves off her without pushing her around too much or touching anything he shouldn’t, firmly ignoring the swell of her breast in her little black top as he eased her arm behind her to slide the jacket sleeve off over her elbow.

Finally she was down to top and jeans, and he turned his attention to her high-heeled boots, his big fingers struggling with the little zips. He managed to get those off her too and tossed them to the floor next to his leg.

Robin was snoring hard now, and there was already a smear of makeup and drool across his pillow, he noted with amusement.

“Right,” he said again, into empty air because he was pretty sure she couldn’t hear him. “How about I wait here while you have your “teeny tiny nap”, and then we’ll see if you still fancy breakfast when you wake up?”

His only answer was another snore. Grinning, Strike shoved Robin’s legs over so that she was lying straighter, and settled back down in the bed himself. His snores soon rivalled hers.


End file.
